


A Very Sterek Summer Fest 2020: Or the Trials and Tribulations of a Werewolf-Besotted Almost-Human

by Cerulea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek has a loose relationship with clothing, Dissociation, Everyone is stoned, Friends to Lovers, Hayden is still around because I say so, Hints of one of my favorite tropes:, M/M, Malia is blunt as a hammer, Mature Derek, Mutual Pining, Pack Mom Stiles Stilinski, Party Pollen, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Derek, Scott is kind of oblivious but Stiles still loves him, Stiles will be recovering from the Nogitsune maybe forever, Summer, The platonic bro-love of Scott and Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerulea/pseuds/Cerulea
Summary: Just a relaxing summer break full of late sleeping, video games, finally legal alcoholic beverages and sneaking looks at Derek. That’s all Stiles wanted. But no, this is Beacon hills and nothing is ever easy.Actually, what he wanted was to be nowhere near Beacon Hills this summer So that he could spend three blissfully monster-free months convincing himself he wasn’t head over heels for Derek, but things have never seemed to work in Stiles’ favor before. So why start now?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: A Very Sterek Summer fest 2020





	1. Beach.

**Author's Note:**

> I find myself in a an extremely rural, mountain location which is beautiful in so many ways and perfect for hiding from Covid. But less ideal in terms of functional internet. So I’m living by the words “better late than never”. 
> 
> As of now Rated Mature for language.

There are things Stiles misses so much about California when he’s away at school: the endless sun, the constant breeze, proximity to nature so beautiful it’s picturesque, a respectable taco, the sight of Derek Hale against the backdrop of the moonlit sea... Not that he can verbally count that amongst his blessings. Stiles’ brand of explicit sexual appreciation would be unappreciated, he is certain. He and Derek have come a long way but he doesn’t think they’ll ever get to a point where Derek is above smashing his head into the sand if he tells him very honestly and expressly just how good his butt looks in those black chinos. The ones that follow the long line of his legs and always give that perfect break against his high-top sneakers. Derek mostly only has a few looks, still after all these years, and Stiles has every one memorized. The rare occasion that Derek debuts a new piece of his wardrobe is like a holiday, it opens Stiles’ eyes just a little bit wider to the full picture of the inner workings of Derek Hale (as well as new facets of Derek’s outer-workings which he very much enjoys).

The day he’d popped up in the pack skype meeting wearing a mind-meltingly lavender v-neck t-shirt that was all loose and soft looking Stiles had choked on his cherry cola to the point that he actually had to get up and catch his breath for a minute.

 _Lavender_.

So much clavicle.

Did he buy this shirt? Did he find it? Is it borrowed? Has he owned this preciously pastel wonder of a garment all along? Stiles spends an hour after they’ve hung up wondering all about Derek’s slowly growing rotation of non-black attire. Over the past few years he’s made leaps and bounds in his recovery, allowing himself to become a real boy again. Stiles shirks the last ten pages of his reading to spend a little while imagining Derek in the loft - sunny and tidy and lived-in, making cinnamon coffee and glowering into his phone while wearing this oversized purple shirt.

It cannot be healthy to be so focused on this man.

Stiles keeps thinking he’ll get over this. That at some point he’ll be at school and something will just click inside of him and he’ll be done with this offensively long-standing crush he has on Derek. That’s kind of how it happened with Lydia. They’d had their short-lived romantic entanglement and then one day, boom, they were both just... unanimously over it. They still love each other, Stiles will always hold her dear and he knows she feels the same. But for them romance just wasn’t the right path.

It’s the same for him and Derek. His soul and brain just haven’t caught up to reality. He thought having this summer free of Beacon Hills, giving himself time to be away from Derek and the pull of the pack, would be an excellent way to detach himself from that pseudo-painful, semi-erotic, constant longing. In fact, he was really counting on it. But of course, summer has come, his semester is over, and here he is, two hours outside of Beacon Hills, exactly where he did _not_ want to be - amidst yet another monster-mash, his brain buzzing with the familiar adrenaline rush of potential death or dismemberment, eyes lingering on the confusingly entrancing sight of Derek, his back now to the sea, arms crossed over his chest, green eyes looking light and inhuman against the twilight of dusk.

How fucking dare he.

And it’s bizarre, seeing Derek Hale outside of the few places Stiles knows him to loiter. It’s like seeing a Muppet on public transit - it’s awesome, you love it, but you’re a little confused if they’re actually there or you’re hallucinating. Derek honestly looks like he isn’t thrilled to be there. Stiles can relate.

Not only is he back in the frying pan, but Derek, beautiful and irritated as ever, is right here with him. Their irritations so often align that Stiles wonders if it must mean something. But of course he’s letting his mind and heart (and some choice other parts) run away with him again. Derek is handsome and smart and brave and so, so, so straight.

Stiles’ huff of frustrated appreciation must not go unnoticed because Derek’s stupid, impossibly pretty eyes drift sharply to his own and his eyebrows dip down in question. And Stiles hates himself for how much their comfort and dexterity in communicating sans words makes him feel special. Derek likes him more than He likes Scott, it’s a well-known fact and occasionally it is extremely obvious andStiles really shouldn’t like that, shouldn’t preen at every momentary instance of them feeling like a unit. Of feeling, pathetically, like Derek’s favorite. He doesn’t answer Derek’s questioning eyebrow quirk. There’s no way to sum up the maelstrom brewing in his head. He takes the stick he’s been fidgeting with and digs it into the sand, hard.

The breeze smells of ocean and woodsmoke and he loves it, he’s missed it so much, but it also sharpens his irritation because he shouldn’t even be here. He isn’t supposed to be here. Beacon Hills was not part of his summer plans. He was supposed to be far away, on the other side of the country, lovingly lamenting his distance from the California coast and his beloved pack while simultaneously working an extremely prestigious internship that was supposed to get his foot in the door with the Behavioral Analysis department of his school’s criminology program. Technically that internship is reserved for seniors or Grad students but if there’s one thing Stiles can do it’s argue, and he’d persuaded and rambled his way into the internship regardless of being a year shy of the requirements. He was pretty proud of himself.

So naturally it all went to shit.

Scott had called.Because Scott always calls.Because when he’d endeavored not to in an attempt to spare Stiles the drama, the shit really hit the fan and Scott realized that a good leader acknowledges when he needs help. Which for Scott and the Hellmouth that is Beacon Hills, is often.

Stiles is technically his second and Beacon Hills is technically his territory and there is always something terrible going wrong. So with one month to go in the semester, final projects and final exam study sessions piling up, Stiles shirked his every responsibility and boarded a plane for California. Knowing they finally busted a cap in Monroe will help him sleep better at night, especially because it wasn’t him who busted it. He may have orchestrated the means by which she met her end, tricking both her and a vindictive Wendigo family from a hunter-ravaged neighboring county into the same location and letting them sort each other out. But he didn’t technically kill her directly.

He did, however, absolutely murder his GPA.

The whole situation with Monroe took longer than expected and Stiles was MIA from a couple of his finals and had to beg his professors to allow him to make them up. But his finishing the semester late cost him the internship. Hence, back in Beacon Hills for the summer. Exactly where he didn’t want to be. And to top it off he’s surrounded by people who keep asking him why he’s not at this internship he wouldn’t shut up about, who he then has to tell that it fell through.

And by ‘fell through’, Stiles actually means ‘received an emailing informing him of his placement being rescinded as a result of his uncompleted course load’ which only occurred because he was on the other side of the country dangling a carrot in front of a gaggle of bloodthirsty Wendigos. When people ask, of course, he waves it off, and says it fell through instead of implying that his obligation to the pack has cost him anything.

And by ‘people’, Stiles actually means the clusterfuck of oblivious rag-tag, pseudo-monster-kids that make up his pack.

He feels guilty for being mad at them, specifically at Scott who when he found out smiled his precious, crooked, doofus-puppy smile and said, “Dude we get to have summer together?” Like it was the best thing to happen in months. 

To which Stiles said something forgettable like _Yeah man_ and proceeded to clench his fists to hide his anger. He knew he was tired from going straight from a red-eye to battle against the hunters to another red-eye across the country to a make-up final and then a treacherous week of begging and pleading, more tests and then a drive across the country. But he had assumed a few days at home, sleeping til two and eating junk food in front of the TV would cure him. He just wanted a little space to mourn the loss of a great opportunity and get over his petty frustrations in peace.

But no.

No, no.

Summer break is not a break if it has anything to do with werewolves and Beacon Hills. So here Stiles is, a mere thirteen hours after finishing the last leg of his drive across the country and crashing face down in his childhood bed, now cowering against the cold of the ocean air, at eleven at night, on some beach like two hours outside of town. And why? Because they are on monster watch.

It’s funny, all of Stiles’ college friends from the East Coast and Midwest imagine California to be perpetually sunny and warm. They’re oblivious to the whipping cold of the winds coming up off the Pacific. Stiles, who has had twenty one years to come to terms with the fact that the coast is, in fact, literally always brisk, has somehow still not dressed warmly enough.

So he’s tired, he’s cold, and he is absolutely not interested in expending his energy and potentially his blood on werewolf related shenanigans. Scott is somehow late to his own rendezvous so Stiles is shivering his ass off doing his least favorite thing of all time - waiting. He must be pretty obvious, as the only human currently present among them, because Derek walks over and sits on the driftwood log beside him, blocking out some of the wind and pressing close to his side without a word.

Liam and Hayden are huddled across from them, though Stiles doubts they feel the cold so acutely. They’re cuddled, looking out over the water like it’s date night and he wants to chuck sand at them and their perfect, nubile, in-love faces.

“We used to come here sometimes when I was a kid,” Derek says out of nowhere, quietly like it’s only meant for Stiles even though he must know the other two can hear. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, he’s looking at Derek and thinking about him at the beach. It’s hard to imagine him young, Without trauma, in the sun, dressed for swimming, playing in the sand and squinting into the daylight. Before he can formulate a response Derek tilts his head minutely and says, “They’re here.”

A few moments later Scott and Malia come trudging with purpose through the sand. When they reach the group Scott immediately goes straight to business, which grates on Stiles’ nerves. He’s just driven across the entirety of these United States and is exhausted and beat-down and he doesn’t even get a _Hello_. Just squared shoulders and a run-down of the facts:

-Dead werewolves found on this beach. First one two weeks ago. Second one last week. No discernible cause of death. 

-Reports of strange sounds and lights along this stretch.

-Something smells “wrong” - which Derek corrects to powerful, electric, most definitely magic. Which Scott immediately wrinkles his nose at because the fact that Derek out-sniffs him at every turn will always be a sore spot.

-The same smell was at the Nemeton in the days after the second wolf was found dead.

Stiles stiffens at the mention of the Nemeton and Derek leans harder against him. It’s comforting, but it doesn’t assuage the ever-present pit of dread that very sharply makes itself known once again in Stiles’ gut. Monsters and Hunters and deadpools he can deal with. But his battles against the super-all-powerful-maybe-sentient-demon-housing tree are supposed to be over. He hasn’t stepped foot in those woods in years, and while he has mostly recovered from his time as the Nogitsune, the knowledge that such an unknowable force of magic is resting just out of sight in his father’s jurisdiction is never entirely gone from his mind. Whatever they’re poking at now, whatever thread they’re pulling, if it has to do with the Nemeton he wants out. He would never have offered to be _in_. Scott knows this.

Of everything they’ve faced - bad people with guns, bad werewolves with claws, witches and Darachs and all manner of creatures of the night, nothing has ever scared Stiles more than the loss of autonomy birthed from that half-dead mystical stump of a tree.

It puts him in a bad headspace to hunt for clues. But they spend hours combing the beach Doing just that. In the dead of night. Which Stiles finds infuriatingly stupid. They aren’t going to find anything now. Why they didn’t come in the morning, Stiles does not know. Oh, wait, yes he does - it’s because Scott didn’t ask him for his opinion. Scott’s in Alpha-business mode, so he hasn’t said anything to Stiles at all, and Stiles feels a little bitter about the fact that business came before friendship. So like the shivering, exhausted brat he is, he stalks off on his own, kicking rocks as he goes, barely glancing around as he puts distance between his undoubtedly pungent chemosignals and the rest of the group. _Clues_ , he thinks bitterly, looking out over the black water, _there are no fucking clues_. They’re out here chasing their tails.

He’s all but screaming in his mind about the futility of the entire endeavor when, naturally, fate proves him wrong.

It starts as a kind of tinkling of bells. Like the dark, hollow beauty of long wind chimes. Only... he’s standing at least twenty feet from the nearest person and a couple of football fields away from any kind of standing structure, so the presence of this sound sets him ill at ease. On top of that, he cannot seem to place it geographically, the sound seeming to move around him, from one ear to the other, sending him spinning in place to catch the source. It makes his hair stand on end. When it gets louder, closer, but he can’t figure out where it’s coming from, Stiles starts to panic. He looks out over the beach and sees the others, searching the sand and brush with an equal lack of enthusiasm, paying him no mind.

They don’t hear it.

It’s only him.

His heartbeat must reflect his growing panic because suddenly Derek, who is closest to him just a ways down the shoreline, pauses; it’s Derek who’s shoulders straighten, whose eyes zero in on him and begin to glow blue. Stiles wants to call out to him, tell him something is wrong, but he can’t. He feels held in place by the strength of the sound anchoring him to the spot, the chimes fading into a high pitched, constant hum. Like stereo feedback inside his head. Louder and louder until Stiles thinks the vibration is knocking the breath out of him. With great difficulty he takes a step toward Derek but his body immediately locks up.

He’s stuck. The sound oppressive, choking the air out of him. He’s disconnected from his body. 

Derek is moving toward him then, and he tries to focus on that, afraid if he loses his tether to this moment he’s somehow going to entirely cease, swallowed completely by that noise. Derek bleeds into the moonlight, the way he moves soft and fluid and mostly obscured by his perpetually dark clothing. Until Stiles can’t see him. Stiles can’t see anything.

Stiles is weightless then. Suspended. Calm. Rocking. His eyes are open and he’s looking up at the sky - it’s so incredibly vast, dark and pretty and infinite. He’s always loved the way the night sky looks when you’re in the sea.

Only...

No. He hasn’t.

He’s never thought that. That thought isn’t his. He’s never been in the sea at night.

And yet, he knows the feel of it - it’s an old friend. So much more a part of him than skin and blood and bone. The sea is safe. Even in this fragile form. Even with the rocking of waves and the pull of the tide, his old friend carries him. Will keep him safe. They must know each other. Stiles, the sea and the sky. The sky is velvet dark, but it shimmers too, he can see now. Like a bubble over water. It’s a shimmer of something beautiful, iridescent, that his regular eyes had never been able to see. Something he’s meant to see. It wants him to see - the iridescent shimmer is a promise. Somewhere he can be lifted to. If he can be still enough, if he can give the sea enough of himself - he can, he has to. He breathes out, feels the weightlessness increase, sees the shimmering color of the film in front of his eyes -

And then he’s heavy and cold and present again. He’s thrashing in the water, choking, coughing, and someone is grabbing him hard, lifting him. For a moment he is weightless again, but it nearly breaks his mind because he’s being carried from the water in arms so strong they hurt against his suddenly shockingly-corporeal body and he realizes that this, here, is the real, tangible world. And all at once he has no idea what’s going on. He lifts his head to see Scott and the others running toward him, and he swivels his eyes up to who is holding him to find that it is Derek, setting him carefully on the sand and looking at him with unhidden concern.

“Stiles,” he asks carefully, voice low and controlled.

Stiles nods, to let him know he’s there, he’s ok, but his voice feels stuck. Scott and the others reach them then, Scott demanding, worry clear on his face, “What happened?”

Derek doesn’t look away from Stiles as he says, “He just... went down.”

“Stiles are you ok?”

“Did you _faint_?” Malia asks incredulously.

“I didn’t faint,” Stiles snaps back, voice raw. He feels unsteady though, and they must all feel it. They watch him carefully, waiting for more but... Stiles doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t know what happened.

“There was a sound,” he says, trying to organize his thoughts into words. “Chimes - buzzing. It... I couldn’t move.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Malia states, looking back out over the water.

Stiles’ eyes follow hers and a cold fear grips him as he looks out to the ocean, because suddenly it doesn’t feel open and empty, but vast and full. Full of power. Full of eyes.

“It wanted me to stay,” he mutters.

“Uhhhh ok,” Liam blurts, terrified.

“You...” Derek looks him over before meeting his eyes, “you smell.”  Stiles blink at him, baffled. “Like magic,” Derek clarifies. “Like what we smelled at the Nemeton.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, before the pack erupts. He’s pretty sure they break down into fast words and argument after that but all Stiles can hear is the static of the sea, the rhythm of push and pull, splash and crash. It’s beautiful, lulling, and it scares him. Derek’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing that anchors him to this moment, his voice is the one that demands they leave, reconvene later, get Stiles home.

Stiles is grateful.

But still, there is a part of him, deep and confused, that aches not to leave her, the sea. Derek helps him stand and Stiles does his level best to pretend that he is fine, normal, unaffected. But he knows, in his heart, that something is wrong.   
  


He should have stayed at school. 


	2. Camping.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Beach incident the mystery of what the hell is going on around Scott’s territory is weighing heavily on the pack and Stiles is none too pleased to find out Scott’s plan for figuring it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! These rickety rural bars of cellular data are staying with me long enough to get this sucker posted! I might just catch up to this AVSS writing fest yet!

Of all the phenomenally stupid ideas Scott has had over the years, only a few were as almost certain to end in Stiles’ immediate death as this.

They’re back at the beach.

Stiles is furious.

Derek is furious.

Liam, Mason and Hayden are exhausted and unenthusiastic but unwilling to muster the ire to disagree outright with Scott who, frankly, made some good points that Stiles is absolutely unwilling to concede were legitimate because _they are back at the fucking beach_. Lydia, finally back from the east coast, is displeased with the shoddy workings of Scott’s plan but is, ultimately, a scientist at heart and curiosity has gotten the better of her. Malia is generally all-in for whatever Scott says. And Scott says, in this instance, that the pack’s next necessary action must be to return to the watery hellscape wherein Stiles’ **_incident_** , as they have taken to calling it, occurred.

You know, no big deal or anything. Just that time Stiles experienced severe auditory hallucination paired with momentary paralysis IN WATER and the distinctly familiar feeling that he was struggling to maintain mental autonomy. Just a series of his worst nightmares that boiled down to the necessity of yet another emasculating rescue by a man he seems destined to never be able to convince he is equally adept to followed by a shock back to awareness via the feeling of being freezing cold and sopping wet, sandy and extremely confused. No biggie.

Granted, Stiles has gone out of his way to behave as though everything is fine. Scott had asked over and over, face sincere and eyes full of worry if Stiles was sure he was ok and Stiles had responded flippantly in the positive every time. He’s good enough at bending the truth at this point that Scott knows he can’t really ascertain the difference between honesty and a fib between the lines of Stiles’ clever words.  Derek, though, had looked at him as though he saw right through it - the snarking and joking and cleverly vague words.  The point is, Stiles is now kicking himself because he can’t really blame Scott for sending them back here to this stupid beach if Stiles lied to him about being fine. The truth is, Stiles is not fine. 

After his **_incident_** , when Stiles got home he had sat in the floor of the shower, shaking and terrified for forty five minutes, trying to understand what he’d experienced, trying not to remember the Nogitsune, or the way his mother too had heard things that weren’t there, and trying to convince himself why he shouldn’t just run away back to college. And still, the ocean called to him. Like a dream whose memory makes itself known again and again hours after waking.

He never wanted to see that place again.

But he’d been stubborn and scared and proud and now? Here they are. Back at the beach.

A third body was found. Not a werewolf, but some kind of were-something. But the third body in three weeks was enough to establish a pattern. And if they’re right, whatever is out here killing shifters, should strike again within the next twenty four hours. So of course, here they are, knapsacks in hand, collapsed tents piled on the ground at their feet, preparing to have a monster-hunt-stakeout-slumber-party on the beach. Yay. Scott instructs them to set up camp in three groups along the shoreline: he and Malia at the body site, Liam, Mason and Hayden just north of them, and then Stiles, Derek and Lydia just south. His reasoning for this is that should Stiles need protecting it’s better to have two of their more experienced fighters at his side. Which, while true, and appreciated, is also extremely unsettling for Stiles who had really been hoping that his days of dissociating nearly to death were definitively over. They spread out up and down the beach, making sure to stay within eyeline and earshot, the distance for which halved by the ambient noise of the sea. Which should be soothing, but for Stiles, now gives him the creeps. The moment that he stepped back on the beach the feeling that they were very much not alone gripped him and now won’t let him go. To distract himself he bothers his new babysitters.

“So, sleeping arrangements. How do we wanna do this? Lyds - sleeping bag share for warmth?” He jokes knowing she will take no offense. Since their brief and unsuccessful romantic moment they have unanimously concluded that while they do love each other, they are very much not in love with each other and therefore their friendship is safe, forged in the fires of adversity followed by awkward fondling that they both had to laughingly admit was utterly devoid of sexual chemistry. He’d still die for her. The fact that she allows him to continue to play this role of the obnoxious, pining teenager when he needs to grasp something familiar only cements that fact.

“Absolutely not,” she says primly, unearthing a bag he hadn’t even seen her carrying. “I have no intention of spending all night in an enclosed space with you two,” she lilts while her clever hands set up a one-woman tent with remarkable ease.

Stiles gapes, “We’re supposed to stay together! You’re my first line of defense! You’re my Costner! Bodyguard: Banshee style!”

She rolls her eyes, “Stiles, please. I will be right here. There won’t even be actual walls between us.” She flips her hand over her shoulder, “I’m taking the first sleep shift. Wake me when you need. Or if Stiles becomes a merman.”

Derek nods like that is a completely acceptable request. Stiles sulks. He looks over at Derek, setting up the second, larger tent. “Please tell me I’m not also ostracized from your temporary wolf den.”

“You will be if you don’t get over here and help me,” he says without heat and Stiles rushes over. Setting up the tent isn’t difficult, but it does take a few minutes of working side by side, which brings him blessedly close to Derek in his grey, waffle-knit henley. As they finish their set-up Stiles is glad for the barrier against the whipping wind, but he’s confusingly nervous about sharing such intimately close quarters with Derek. He’s been told his chemosignals, like his mouth, are loud and even more than the bravery to man-up and legitimately shoot his shot with Derek what he really, truly wants is to never ever ruin the perfect, unspoken, ironclad friendship between them. And Stiles’ heart and his ADHD-fueled brain are overactive betrayers so he’s terrified of becoming uncomfortably blatant when there are no other pack members or ambient smells around to blame his lust and affection and more than likely embarrassingly apparent longing on. He cannot imagine how he’s going to be able to keep a lid on both the impending doom of his proximity to the sea _and_ his crush on Derek without giving himself a nosebleed. Derek must sense Stiles’ growing panic because he looks at Stiles carefully for a moment, watching him as Stiles very maturely pretends not to notice.

“You don’t have to be here,” Derek whispers, not unkindly. It’s not a sharp-bitten thing like it might once have been, but instead something gentler. Not a _**go home**_ , but an _**it’s ok if you need to leave**_. Frustrated at his own obviousness, Stiles huffs. Even though he’s trying to be nice, Derek is shining a light on the fact that Stiles is very much not ok which is making it remarkably impossible for him to succumb to his denial That he’s totally fine. He fights the urge to snap back, to bite out that yeah, he really does have to be here. Instead he sighs and admits, “I know. It just... feels like I do.”

Derek nods. “I’ll stay awake,” he promises. “If there’s anything out there, I’ll hear it.”

“Yeah unless you get the magic tinnitus treatment.”

Derek’s brows furrow, “I don’t think we will. Last time, you were the only human, and you were the only one who...” he gestures vaguely.

“Damn my impressionable mortal brain.”

Derek rolls his eyes but he smiles, “We’re all mortal, Stiles.”

“You don’t look it,” he blurts.

And it’s out there.

Derek is looking at him, first with surprise, and then with a flavor of _Derek Hale smile_ that Stiles is utterly entranced by because he’s never seen it before. It’s soft, private, sweet but at the edges, wicked. And all of a sudden Stiles is taken back to that night when he was pulled into the sea - to when Derek’s face appeared amidst the velvet sky, to when his arms lifted him, carried him, his voice controlled but laced with an edge of panic as he called Stiles’ name. When Stiles had finally come back to the world, the wolves had talked around him, discussed, debated, and for a moment he worried he was once again somehow not really there. But Derek’s hand anchored on his shoulder and reminded him that he was real.

Scott hadn’t wanted to leave his side, terrified for him in a way he hadn’t been for some time. His dark eyes were full of worry and Stiles gave a weak punch to his shoulder and explained he was fine, just wanted to go home and sleep it off. Scott hesitated, afraid to let him out of his sight, but Stiles promised to text when he got home, and again when he woke in the morning. Derek added that he’d be taking Stiles home, he’d keep an eye on him.

Stiles rolled his eyes to cover the extra beat of his heart.

Eventually Scott agreed but only after holding Stiles by the shoulders, looking him sincerely in the eyes, and making him swear on The Force (because god bless him he still really doesn’t know what that means) that Stiles would call him the minute something felt off.

By the time they got back to Derek’s car Stiles had been sopping wet, freezing, and covered in sand - his least favorite combination of sensations as of that exact moment - for almost an hour.

“Here,” Derek said, pulling a small, beaten duffel out from under the seat. He pulled out a worn dark grey t-shirt and a pair of black sweats. Stiles took them in hand in somewhat of a daze. He looked around blandly, not sure what he was looking for until Derek said again, quietly, “Here,” and opened the back passenger door, which helped obscure Stiles somewhat from the direct view to the road.

“Thanks.” He managed removing the wet t-shirt fine, throwing the sopping thing on top of Derek’s car with a wet slap without thinking, which occurred to him was very rude but only after Derek turned at the sound and glared at the clumps of sand Stiles had showered the hood with. He expected Derek to glare at him and say something snarky, but the man’s narrowed eyes zeroed in on him and then promptly did something Stiles’ had never seen before - his expression went soft, and his eyes trailed down to Stiles’ chest and lower where Stiles was still wet and therefore entirely struggling to get on the dry t-shirt, the damned thing stuck bunched up at his shoulder blades. He froze as Derek stared with dark, tracking eyes, unsure what was passing between them. After a long, silent, confusing moment, Derek seemed to snap back to reality and grunted, turning away again.

Somehow the ride home wasn’t awkward. They managed to shake it off and Stiles was so relieved to still have Derek to be comfortable with after the terror of his incident at the beach. Derek offered to stay the night, sensing Stiles was still shaken, but knowing he needed to be able to have a full breakdown and needed to be out of earshot of Derek to do it, Stiles sent him home. The reluctant way Derek agreed made Stiles feel warm.

Whenever they saw each other again in the following days, which was almost constantly between pack meetings and research and an utterly useless visit to Deaton, things stayed comfortable between them. Stiles thought about that moment at the car often, but things between him and Derek felt the same as always so he didn’t push. 

This moment now, standing almost chest to chest on the beach in front of their soon-to-be shared sleeping space, does not feel the same as always. This isn’t like their normal friendship at all. The air between them now is tense, charged, but lacking in any of the argument or animosity that usually pushes them at one another. Now they’re both quiet, and there’s no reason to be sharing breath quite so closely in such a mundane, in between moment. When they stare too long Derek eventually cocks his head toward the tent and says, “Get in.”

“Right,” Stiles says, flustered, and turns, all but tumbling into the tent. When Derek climbs in after him Stiles’ stress level suddenly triples, because what’s happening between them since he got back is so confusing; he’s not delusional enough to think that Derek is actually into him but he doesn’t know how he’s going to mask his reaction to their proximity sleeping in a tiny tent when Derek is being so... whatever this is. His heart and chemosignals must be doing a whole lot because Derek looks at him, unsure, and asks carefully, “Are you alright?”

And because he’s tired and stressed and embarrassed Stiles snaps, “ _Yes_. Stop asking.”

The silence then is heavy. Which is meaningful in and of itself in a way Stiles cannot detangle right now. He and Derek are never precious about each other’s feelings. It’s part of what Stiles adores about the comfort of their friendship - even with their assholery on full display, they never shy away from one another. They snipe and snark at each other all the time, sometimes going as far as physical violence. Even then, it never feels... heavy like this. Finally Derek says, too carefully, “If you’re... uncomfortable - if I’m stressing you out - I can go outside.”

Stiles just deflates. Because that’s not even Derek’s bitchy voice. The one that says, **_are you ok princess, do you need me to call your babysitter?_** No, this is once again Derek’s careful, mature voice. All gentle and calm and self-hating. Because he thinks Stiles is uncomfortable and assumes it is his fault. Stiles hates himself too in this moment because Derek’s been nothing but nice and Stiles has been a really inconsistent dick lately. He sighs and says, “No man. I’m sorry. It’s just...” He looks over, nervous what he’ll see, but Derek’s face is open and passive, waiting. Almost _imploring_. The idea that Derek wants more from him is what breaks him down. Stiles just blurts out everything he’s been feeling (aside from true nature of his feelings for Derek, of course) since he came home to deal with Monroe. The existential stress of not knowing his place in the pack, the financial stress of school, the academic stress of school, the lost internship, the exhaustion and now the absolutely fucking traumatizing event of being nearly swallowed whole by an unseen force. Again. He’s been talking for awhile when he realizes Derek hasn’t rolled his eyes or told him to shut up once. “Wow. I did not mean to unload all that on you,” he admits, sagging under the exhaustion of having finally let it all out. 

Derek shrugs, but he’s smiling in his small way. “I knew what I was getting into when I offered to bunk with you,” he pans.

“I’m sure you were thrilled.”

Derek looks at him a long moment, then down at his sneakers and says quietly, “I definitely wasn’t disappointed.”

Stiles heart trips. He doesn’t know what to make of that. He knows what he wants it to mean, but for once in his life he’s at a loss for words.

“I’ll take this watch,” Derek announces suddenly. “Go ahead and go to sleep.” When Stiles merely blinks Derek looks at him like he’s stupid and says, “I can tell you’re exhausted. We need you and your brain actually functioning.” He nods toward the sleeping bag and Stiles huffs.

Even as Stiles is unrolling the bag and stretching out on top of it he argues, “Dude, I am _not_ gonna be able to sleep here.”

“Just rest,” he orders. And then, more softly, “Don’t worry,” Derek says, settling warm and solid to his seated position against Stiles’ back, “I’ve got you.”

Stiles wishes he could say something joking, but nothing comes. It isn’t funny at all, he realizes.Because in a truly rare turn of events, Stiles believes that he is safe.With the comfort of Derek warm at his back and the endless, rhythmic push of the ocean in his ears, settling into him like a cold drip of dread, Stiles falls asleep full of longing and conflict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued...
> 
> I’ve never successfully written for an actual community fest or challenge before so this is pretty exciting. Hopefully I’m doing this right...?


	3. Party.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a difference between a stakeout and a slumber party. Stiles can’t believe he has to specify this. Also, he feels very high...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES YES YES - cell tower thou canst not hide from me any longer!  
> *Rapidly posts as many chapters as I can from my car, while parked on the hill at the neighboring farm*  
> I will be a apart of this Sterek Summer Fest damn it! Even if I have to explain my loitering presence to the neighbors.

Stiles isn’t sure what wakes him. He thinks maybe it’s the acute feeling that something is out of place. There’s the sound of laughter outside the tent - too happy, too free. Too close. It’s still dark. He scrabbles for his phone, unearthing it from under the sleeping bag.

3:25am.

He listens. It sounds like Hayden laughing. Giggling, more like. And Liam too. Shouldn’t they be farther away?Shouldn’t they be at least attempting to be quiet? No canoodling in pursuit of evil is like, stakeout 101.

“What the hell?” He groans and rolls over to a sitting position only to find Derek lying beside him, watching him.

He’s also shirtless. And shoeless. And very startlingly relaxed. He’s got one arm tucked behind his head, the other hand resting on the long, naked expanse of his stomach. Stiles’ eyes catch on skin, skin, skin for a few stilted moments before he realizes that something is off in the utter openness of Derek’s posture.He’s never been shy about shirtless-ness, or on a few occasions, total nudity - for the sake of shifting - but he always holds himself like a soldier. It’s always less _Mathew McConaughey at the beach_ and more _Roman soldier preparing for ritual battle_. But now, his limbs are loose and his body settled down into the bottom of the tent like he could lie there forever. And there’s something a little Dazed and Confused in his expression - too calm, too unburdened. He’s just barely smiling as he looks up at Stiles and his face is openly affectionate.

It squeezes something hopeful and painfully suspicious in Stiles’ heart.

“What’s going on?”

Derek just smiles further, prominent front teeth peeking out, which puts Stiles on edge. It doesn’t feel real. Derek’s eyes track his face, and Stiles feels himself blush. “I fought the idea so hard,” Derek says conversationally, “that you could be the Nogitsune.” Stiles gapes. They don’t talk about that. No one talks to him about that. Derek continues, “But the more I look at you, the more I watch you move...” He sits up, weight leaned back on his hands, and they’re suddenly so close, sharing breath once again. “You’re very fox-like,” he says with a smile, like it’s a compliment. “If you were a born shifter, I don’t think you’d be a wolf at all,” he says, as though he’s given the concept a lot of thought. And the thought pleases him. “Too quick. Too clever.”

“Um... ok?” Stiles chokes out, feeling off-center. “I meant... what’s going on _out there_.”

Derek listens, eyes drifting as he uses another sense, then he smiles and looks at Stiles and says with a shrug, “Everything.”

Stiles stares at him. “...Everything.”

Derek’s eyes dip down to Stiles’ lips entirely unsubtly and he says, “Everything except you. And me.” His eyes meet Stiles’ again and he says softly, “We’re in here.”

Stiles’ eyebrows raise and he fights down the hard beating of his heart at Derek’s proximity and shirtlessness and bafflingly wandering eyes and soft voice and blurts, “Ok - what’s happening? Are you stoned? Touch your nose,” he demands.

Derek smiles and reaches up, swipes his finger teasingly across Stiles’ nose. Stiles balks.

 ** _“Your_** nose, Derek! God - just my luck, a werewolf failing a field sobriety test,” he clamors over to the flap of the tent and unzips it, crawling out uncoordinatedly. He sees a bonfire a few yards away which... illegal, A. And B, not at all low profile. They are supposed to be on a stake-out and Mason, Hayden and Liam are dancing their little hearts out around a fire a stone’s throw from the potentially werewolf-murdering ocean. “What the...” Stiles gets to his feet and a cool breeze rolls in off the ocean, and he immediately has to steady himself against the side of the tent. He feels suddenly strangely buzzed, like when you have a few drinks while seated and then go to stand up and realize the alcohol seemed a lot less powerful while you were sitting down. Derek steps out from the tent gracefully, and stretches like he’s waking from a long sleep. And while the sight of shirtless Derek doing _anything_ will probably always sideline any other train of thought, Stiles finds that the unabashed hunger with which he watches now isn’t entirely all him. Oh, the hunger is his, no doubt. But the sudden surge in desire to act on it without fear of repercussion or sense of propriety is definitely foreign. Regular-Stiles is mature enough to at least _pretend_ not to ogle these days. Regular-Stiles _cares_ how Derek feels, what Derek thinks. It’s only drunk-Stiles who has no shame. And right now, Stiles can feel his inhibitions plummeting. He clumsily reaches back into the tent for his sport water bottle and immediately squeezes some water into his mouth and chugs it down because this? This mystery drunk that’s got him thinking dangerous things about his good friend who is clearly also under the influence, is exactly why he did not want to come back to this godforsaken, beautiful place. This is _not_ how they needed this night to go. They should be sharp, quiet, ready for battle. And instead he feels light, careless and wanting. Whatever is happening, it feels strange and good and every part of him wants to give in, wants to cross the meager few feet of sand between him and Derek and stick his tongue down his throat. But that is... that’s not ok, right?

_No - Jesus - consent. Friendship. Important._

Stiles takes another swig of water. The flare of excitement half-naked Derek elicits in his gut is not at all quelled when Derek closes his eyes, tipping his face up toward the moon, and drags his hands down his own torso, unbuttoning his jeans. Stiles nearly chokes and Derek looks over at him, utterly unbothered as he unzips.

“What are you doing?” Stiles demands loudly.

“Shifting,” Derek says easing his jean down, down - and there are the hipbones, and oh god the line of dark hair and - Stiles panics.

He squeezes the bottle of water in Derek’s face.

Derek falters back, shakes his head, sending water drops spraying in an arc around him, then looks at Stiles, eyes wide.He blinks several times, his eyebrows furrow, he looks around them, then down to where his hands are poised at the waistband of his jeans, and then his eyes track slowly, wider still, up to Stiles’ face.

Stiles asks, “Are you _you_?”

Derek nods, then grabs his forehead like his mind is spinning, “Yeah. Yeah I’m me but...” he shakes his head, “not for long. What...?” His eyes track over the the bonfire where the pups are still dancing and laughing.

“I don’t know dude. I don’t know. We’re having a full Midsommer tea party out here and I don’t know how terrified I should be! Like on a scale of _fuck it_ to _run for our lives_ I have no concept of where we’re at!”

“Ok,” Derek tries to calm him, hands out toward him like Stiles is a spookable horse. “Are you...?”

“Feeling my tenuous grip on my sanity slip? Yes! It’s like... it’s like the best drunk I’ve ever had - like a super excellent champagne bubble drunk - and the harder I fight it the harder it comes on and dude I’m about to slip and I’m fucking terrified because _this is not normal_. This is _not_ normal and something is happening to us and I really do not want to wake up dead tomorrow! This plan was so dumb! _**Why did we come here!?**_ Why did we come here?”

Suddenly Derek is there, hand careful and warm on the juncture of his shoulder and neck, and it both helps and doesn’t. “Stiles, breathe.”

He does - one long in, one long out. “Ok. Ok,” he starts again. “So, you and I are momentarily mostly functional. The shock of the water? What... does it smell like anything? Poison?”

Derek shakes his head. “Not poison. Not drugs. It smells like... the magic. Like raw power. Like how you smelled when I pulled you out of the water.”

“Great. Magic. It’s on us - like the frikkin black spot.”

Derek shakes his head, thinking. “If it had wanted to kill us - even to incapacitate us...” he drifts off, body starting to relax, eyes drifting toward the fire and getting stuck there.

“DEREK.”

He startles, body straightening up again, “Sorry. I’m here. I just... in a strange way I feel... safe.”

“We’re drugged against our will while hunting a shifter-killer in said killer’s hunting grounds and you feel _safe_?”

Derek’s expression screws up for a moment, but then smoothes and he nods. He seems calm and confident in his assessment. 

_Well that’s fucking crazy._ Stiles huffs. “I fucking hate the ocean.”

Derek winces like something in that statement hurts him to the core and Stiles is pretty sure that’s a clue but he’s also pretty sure the magic making them loopy is working it’s way back into his brain in such a way that his critical thinking is severely dampened. “We need to go,” he says, grabbing Derek’s forearm. “We need to leave. We have to - yeah. We have to put distance between us and this.” He pushes Derek, “Go - go get the car keys. I’m gonna-” he gestures to where Liam is hugging Hayden in his arms, spinning them in circles, and Mason is just vibing by the fire, oblivious to the rest of the world. “Get the keys,” he says again, and Derek nods, looking a little dazed but like he’s trying to fight through it as he turns back toward the tent.

For Stiles, the steps toward the fire, further out onto the beach, are treacherously slow. The sand makes him feel unsteady and everything about the night sky, the repetitive hush of the ocean, the clean, salty scent of the air, makes him want to lay down and roll around and just _accept_. Something in him begs him to just stop fighting. But he can’t. He shouldn’t. Because as happy as he thinks it would make him, that’s nuts, right?

By the time he reaches Liam and Hayden, he feels more tired than he should. “Alright lovebirds,” he interrupts their slow dance. They seem surprised he’s there, and then immediately pleased. The way happy drunks are always so ecstatic to see anyone they know.

“Stiiiiiiles!!!” Hayden cheers happily. Across the fire Mason hoots in celebration. Liam just smiles at him dumbly, like a sweet, little, blue-eyed puppy.

God help them.

“Ok, time to go, kiddies.”

“Oh nooooo,” Hayden pouts. She’s hanging off of Liam as though he is the only thing keeping her standing. “Come on,” she begs, “dance with us.”

“Move this party toward the car,” Stiles turns to point in the direction of the car and yelps - Derek is standing directly behind him, keys in hand. He managed to find those, but not a shirt. “Jeez,” Stiles breathes heavily, “frikkin’ sneak-wolf.”

Derek smiles at him like it’s a compliment, drifts closer, his eyes dipping down to Stiles’ lips and Stiles’ body just... drifts. Leans into him. Until all he’d have to do is tilt and their lips might touch and -

_NO. Derek - friend - consent - magic doobie brain-scramble._

Stiles squeezes the water bottle between them and in a hilarious mockery of what his body actually wants, it squirts between their insanely close bodies hitting them both in the chest and chin.

“Oh shit,” Stiles mutters, feeling mortified but a little clearer.

Derek shakes his head and blinks at him. “Thanks,” he grunts.

“No problem,” Stiles says, breathless. They’re both a little more present but their eyes are still locked. Derek looks down at his hand suddenly, like he didn’t realize he was holding anything, and lifts the keys saying, “Got ‘em.”

Stiles nods, “Ok. Ok.” He turns back toward the others and scans the beach, frowning. “Where’s Scott?” They gesture vaguely a little ways down the beach to the dunes where Stiles can just barely make out the shape of two figures moving in the sand. One look at Derek’s grimace tells him that yes, it’s exactly what it looks like. “Ok, definitely not getting involved in that. You two, come here.”

Liam and Hayden turn and face him, loopy and guileless. He almost regrets having to ruin their high. But not enough to not do it.He squeezes the bottle and splashes them both in the face. The looks of utter bafflement that hit them at first are almost worth this entire debacle - they’re just so cute and confused. When they blink back to momentary mild-sobriety, Stiles is suddenly feeling exhausted and intends to lean on a piece of driftwood which becomes collapsing into sitting in an awkward sprawl of limbs.

“What is this?” Liam asks, blue eyes wide and unfocused. He’s unsteady on his feet, “Wolfsbane?”

“No,” Derek offers succinctly.

“We think it’s magic,” Stiles finishes.

“Magic!?” Liam squeaks.

“How do you feel?” Derek asks.

Liam’s eyes dip down for a moment while he thinks, before just shrugging and saying, “Good.”

Hayden rolls her eyes and adds, “A little too good. Drunk - like there’s nothing to worry about. Like... like we’re supposed to be celebrating?”

The sound of a body tumbling into the sand has them all looking over to where Mason has just tumbled over his own feet and plopped onto his rear with a laugh.

“Why is it affecting us _and_ him?” Liam asks worried, “If it’s strong enough for us - Mason’s only human! Is he gonna be ok?”

“Yes,” Derek answers without question and it gives Stiles’ pause. He seems sure. He’s utterly certain that he’s right. But... how can he be? They don’t know anything. Before he can ask, Scott and Malia come jogging up to where they’re gathered, looking red-cheeked and happy. “Stiles!” Scott says with a smile, “I think we’re high! Are we high? Is this like... is this like a contact high? Can werewolves even get high?”

I have no idea but let’s not wait to find out,” Stiles gets up with the intent of gathering Mason but immediately faceplants into the sand, legs buckling under him, brain going sloshy and unable to find up. He’s pretty sure he’s embarrassing himself, struggling in the sand to get his limbs under him and failing at every turn to manage to actually sit up. He’s collapsed onto his chest when his arms won’t cooperate for a third time when he decides to take a different tack and manages to roll onto his back. When he looks up, Derek is standing over him, looking utterly flummoxed by Stiles, and also looking a hundred feet tall and kind of glow-y in the moonlight. “Wow,” Stiles says. “You’re so big.” Derek’s face goes blank, eyes wide, lips a little parted, and it definitely does not encourage Stiles to look away. He actually musters the energy to focus harder when he notices Derek’s cheeks flush pink. Which... Derek doesn’t blush. “Shit,” Stiles blurts. “We’re stony-balogna.”

“It feels great,” Malia shouts from across the fire, her eyes sparkling in a manic way that spells trouble almost as clearly as the blurry sight of her clumsily pulling off her boots and removing her shorts. She moves in a blur, sending articles of clothing flying in every direction and leaving everyone present but Mason and Derek staring after her with open mouths. Mason mostly laughs in support and Derek seems utterly unbothered by nudity.

Stiles sighs as her naked body streaks down the beach completely bare leaving Scott to chase after her. “Hales,” he mutters.Stiles grapples against the sand for the water bottle he dropped but when he clutches it, he shakes it, and realizes it’s empty. “Oh shit - our magic sobriety water.”

“I don’t think it was the water,” Derek says vaguely.

Stiles blinks up at him, “What?”

Derek frowns down at him, “What?”

Liam pipes up, “Dude, do you need help?”

“I’m perfectly capa-“ Stiles squeaks when his world is upended and he’s lifted bodily and placed on his feet. “Thanks,” he mutters to Derek, who is once again only a breath away. His hands are still holding onto Stiles, sliding from where he’s lifted him under the arms, down to Stiles’ waist. They stand there, pressed practically chest to chest, Derek’s hands feeling warm and big against his body. If it weren’t for that nagging pit of dread that they might be in mortal peril, Stiles would have to count this among his favorite moments. 

Apropos of being magically stoned on the beach and utterly besotted with the way Derek looks and acts and just generally exists Stiles blurts, “I really don’t want an ocean monster to kill you.”

That easy, slight smile is back at Derek looks at him and he says, “Ok.”

“I really want to keep standing here with you but I don’t want a cracken to eat you,” Stiles blurts. “Or Scott. _Anyone_. I don’t want anyone to get eaten or mermaided or selkied or lady of the laked.”

Derek’s eyes are dark with blown pupils, his expression soft, “Ok.”

“So we should...” Stiles voice drifts out. Derek leans in, so close that Stiles’ heart jack-hammers in his chest, and he runs the tip of his nose up the side of Stiles’ neck, breathing in. “We sh-should...”

“Ok,” Derek says against the bolt of Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles sways into him and Derek accepts the weight easily. His lips drag, parted and warm and feather-light down the path his nose just travelled and Stiles shudders as he feels him breathe.

“That’s... that’s...” _Perfect_. “No!” Stiles gasps and leans back suddenly, leaving Derek looking baffled and lost. But it’s too much. Because that’s a gateway touch - that’s the first hit of the black tar kind of slippery slope touch that he will in no way be able to stop himself from indulging in if it goes on one second longer and Derek is high a a frikkin kite.

Stiles has been an overzealous appreciator of beauty in the past but now, as a grown man, and even in this altered state, he considers himself a consent king.Because he knows how it feels to not be sure and push forward anyway. He knows how it feels to lose yourself. And the most terrible truth of all, is that he doesn’t just want to bone Derek.

He wants to slow-bone Derek.

Like, maybe forever.

Like on their wedding night and on their fifth, tenth, fiftieth anniversaries.

And Derek might even like him back, but now is no time to find out. Because now isn’t real. And if Derek kisses him right now and they manage to survive til tomorrow and it didn't mean anything or Derek feels used... Stiles might actually disintegrate and die.

“Monster,” Stiles announces. For a moment Derek looks shocked, then gutted and Stiles flails and screams, “No - MONSTER. Shifter-killing ocean-monster! We’re... this is supposed to be... we’re gonna get eaten. _You can’t get eaten, Derek_. We have to leave, remember?”

Derek blinks, then looks at him, all soft and calm and says, “What if we didn’t?”

Stiles groans, “God - this stupid magic asshole of a monster is testing me.” He steps forward and grabs Derek by the shoulders, the movement making him feel a little sloshy, and says, “Derek, Moon of my whatever, handsomest wolf in all the land, I need you to listen to me big guy. _We need to leave_. You make sure these ones don’t go anywhere. I’m gonna find the other three, and then we’re...” he loses his train of thought but Derek just watches him expectantly. “Car!” Stiles shouts. “We’re going to the car. Ok. Stay right here. Don’t let them leave.”

Derek nods. Stiles turns toward the frolicking youngsters at the bonfire and shouts, “No one die!”

“You got it!” Mason agrees smiling, but he never stops dancing which makes the promise a little less weighty.

Stiles hauls ass unccordinatedly down the beach in the direction Scott and Malia ran. But instead of them, he finds Lydia, laid out in the sandy grass a yard further out from the water.

Lydia looks like a perfect goddess. She’s laid out, perfectly still, dress floated down to the sand around her like she fell from heaven light as a feather and disturbed nothing on her way. Her long red hair is fanned out around her and she looks like a painting Stiles once saw of Ophelia in the river. Floating, porcelain and perfect.

But... it was a sad painting, right? Why was that...?

Stiles remembers with a jolt that the painting is beautiful in a haunting way because Ophelia is fucking dead.

“LYDIA,” he launches himself into the sand at her side. She gasps in surprise and Stiles shouts, “Thank god.”

She huffs in frustration and then goes back to her beautiful, ghostly repose.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks in the noisiest whisper possible.

“Listening.”

“To what?” He whispers.

She opens her eyes solely to roll them. “Listen,” she whispers back, eyes closing, “they want to talk to you.”

Stiles lies down beside her and closes his eyes. He smells her perfume, the ocean, distant echoes of wood smoke. He hears the waves, and just barely, underneath it... what is that?

“The song,” Lydia says, eyes open but not seeing, “it’s for him.”

“Him?” Stiles echoes. He doesn’t know why, but he turns his head in the sand and his eyes find Derek. Malia and Scott have joined the others around the fire in celebration. All but Derek, who splits the difference between the pack and where Stiles and Lydia lay. Where the other wolves are manic and wild, he is calm, still. Soaking up the moon.

“He needS you,” Lydia says. “To help him listen.” She takes his hand, “Listen.”

Stiles does. He concentrates on the itch in the back of his mind, the shadow just beneath what he can consciously hear. It’s there, if he could only make it out. Lydia squeezes his hand, and the sound breaks through.

Familiar.

Low, deep, melodic.

Chimes.

His eyes snap open, his heart skidding against his ribs in terror. He sits up and climbs to his feet hoping to shake it off, but it’s like now that he’s heard them, they won’t let him go.“Oh no,” he stumbles forward, looking around. “No, no - Derek!?”

His voice startles Derek from several yards down the beach. He jerks from his reverie at the sound of Stiles’ panicked voice. He turns and starts toward him and Stiles thinks _thank god_ , because the chimes are getting louder and making his legs work is getting more difficult. The terror seizes Stiles - it’s going to swallow him. It’s going to take him over and drag him down into the sea. But maybe not if he can get to him - not if they’re together. Derek reaches him just in time as Stiles collapses into him, immediately losing touch with his legs, and they sink down into the sand. Stiles clutches to him, wrapping his arms around his neck hard. Derek reaches beneath him and lifts Stiles into his lap, maneuvering his legs around Derek’s waist like it’s nothing, and then wrapping his arms around him tight.

The chimes are ringing louder, melting into that skull-vibrating tone, and Stiles is losing breath, losing motor function. “Don’t let me go,” Stiles begs. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never,” Derek says. And Stiles buries his face against his neck and winces against the pressure building in his head, the voiceless influence that beckons.

His eyes are squeezed closed in response to the deafening sound but he wants to see, he wants them open. He opens his eyes and looks out at the ocean, dark and endless and where earlier it terrified him, now it calls. The water is pure power, where it creeps closer and closer and then pulls away. Coy. His mind is split, between fear and joy. Fear he’ll drown, and joy at the knowledge that he won’t, that he can’t, that she wouldn’t do that to him.

Them being such old friends.

The harder Stiles looks, the more he starts to see... she glitters under the moon. Her surface infinite obsidian and navy gems that bleed into white as they crash together against the sand. And the horizon, where his eyes would usually see the darkness of the the night sky, see now the trail of glimmering, iridescent light from each distant star as it reaches down to touch her. He wants to be inside of that beauty, to see everything this way.

It wants him to see.

It knows he can.

He tenses his arms as best he can to feel that Derek is still there with him and it answers, _yes, we want him too. He can come. He’s supposed to come._

 _Come._

So Stiles does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm, I apologize that my keyboard appears to be randomly capitalizing some letters?  
> Also, is this chapter trash? You know what - don’t answer that. I had fun writing it so...

**Author's Note:**

> To Be Continued...!
> 
> Any mistakes are mine as I am writing this as fast as humanly possible.


End file.
